


Breaking Free

by LeftHandersRule



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, F/M, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24282427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftHandersRule/pseuds/LeftHandersRule
Summary: They can run, and they can try to hide, but at Mount Massive Asylum, one thing is guaranteed; pain. No matter how fast they try to run, or how hard they try to outsmart their foes, Mount Massive will devour all those that try to escape.Only time will tell who can truly outlast everything.***This will be updated from time to time, so keep an eye on it.
Relationships: Eventually - Relationship, Lisa Park/Waylon Park, Waylon Park/Miles Upshur
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Breaking Free

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter of hopefully many more to come. This story may contain triggers for some people, and will also grow increasingly graphic, so read with caution. 
> 
> This chapter contains some violence, anxiety and Andrew being creepy. So be warned.

In a dark lit room all that could be heard was frantic clicks of a keyboard and quiet but heavy breaths. Waylon did his best to keep his breathing in check, but the rising dread in his chest was smothering him, suffocating him. His head was dipped low as he sat at the desk tucked away into the corner of the server room. His fingers occasionally spasmed as fingers typed up words on the screen before him. Cold sweat damped his skin, especially on his palms. His heart thundered against his chest, making his ribs sore and his lungs begin to ache. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be writing this, shouldn't be doing his. He could write out a list of all the reasons why doing this could get him killed and it would fill up two pages of college ruled paper, front and back but the reasons why he should were strong. He could only count the reasons for it on a single hand and still have fingers to spare, but the reasons were so significant, that the risk had to be took. Part of him wanted to quit, to forget it and keep his nose down and do what he's been told like he has been doing for weeks, but no matter how many excuses he gave himself, he didn't stop typing. 

Waylon glanced behind him, scanning the room. He could imagine Blaire standing in the shadows, watching the anxiety wrack through Waylon. He could almost hear Blaire's voice calm and cold, but the man wasn't there. Waylon thought that seeing nobody would make him feel more at ease, but it didn't. His mind was racing. _'You know someone is going to catch you'_ he thought to himself. _'Someone is going to see, someones going to find out, and there going to come for you.'_. Waylon spun back to the keyboard, clasping his hands together for a moment before trying to pick up the pace. His leg bounced rapidly as he typed more information into the email. A few more sentences and frantic thoughts later he figured it was finished.

Normally, Waylon could read over a single text message to a good three to five times depending on length to make sure everything was correct, and he was even more meticulous with formal writing such as emails, but the longer this email sits, the more painful his death will be. He hardly spent ten minutes in the server room, even less writing the email, but even that feels like centuries too long. He brought his finger up to press send, but there was a spark of hesitation. One click. One click is all it will take for him to die. 

_Click._

His heart banged against his chest, he felt like he was beginning to have a heart attack. Before Waylon could put his hand over his pounding heart, it stopped when the server room door opened with a creek. The room spun around and Waylon's body felt lighter than ever. The room was dark, and he was hidden behind electronics, but Waylon knew he's been caught. The blood drained from his face and without a thought Waylon tucked the laptop behind one of the servers and the wall. It made a slight clunk sound and whoever opened the door clearly heard the sound. _'Waylon you fucking moron'_ he cringed. The door audibly was pushed wider and the man called out "hey! Who's in here?"

Hiding wasn't an option. He stood up, legs trembling under his weight. A brief second passed before Waylon stepped out of his hiding spot. Light washed over him from the doorway, illuminated his sheet like skin. A broad shouldered security guard stood in the doorway and Waylon did his best to clear his frazzled mind, but by his eyes blown wide, skin stripped of all it's color and hair sticking to his forehead by sweat, the guard would have to be brainless to not know Waylon was up to something. He internally cursed at himself before forcing a small smile onto his face, doing his best to look more welcoming and open, but he knew he was already screwed. The guard looked Waylon up and down, face contorted with skepticism and confusion. 

"Park?" The man questioned.

"Yes... Hi," Waylon breathed. He didn't realize how out of breath he was until he practically panted out those words. His hands found the bottom of his sweater and twisted the fabric. The man scoffed at him and crossed his arms. He stepped to the side for Waylon to leave, but that wasn't the end of their conversation. 

"They've paged for you three times already," he said flatly. 

"Oh... really? I-I hadn't noticed."

That was a lie. He heard each and every one. 

"Yeah," the man glared. "Something urgent with the engine, you better go."

"Right... Okay. I'll be leaving now. Thank you." 

Waylon stepped past him, momentarily blinded by the brightness of the hallway. He did his best not to squint. Just as he was ready to walk down the hall, the man spoke again. 

"What were you doing in there anyway?" Waylon's stomach twisted and sunk at his words. "I thought you were just a software guy."

Waylon turned to him, body stiff and movements feeling alien. He flicked his eyes at the man, then stared at his own feet. His fingers were shaking violently, and he knew the anxiety attack that he's been fighting back is winning the battle. He licked his dry lips as he thought of hundreds of half assed lies and ways to change the subject. 

"I was missing a changer, thought I left it in there," he muttered, eyes still glued to the floor. 

"Was it?"

"N-no. Unfortunately."

With that Waylon walked away from the guard, ending the conversation there. He eased the breath out that he was apparently holding in and mindlessly approached the doors at the end of the hall. He didn't feel like he was walking. It felt like he was standing still, and everything else was moving. He hardly even realized he walked past two scientists until he walked through a set of doors. He wondered what his face looked like, what his expression was. He couldn't feel it, couldn't read what face he was making just by feeling. He probably looked like a drug addict. He approached the desk and nearly forgot why he was there to begin with. The man sitting behind the desk stared up at him with a judgmentally plucked brow. 

"You're Waylon Park?"

"Y-yes."

"Why weren't you answering the page?"

"I couldn't hear it," Waylon lied. He was sweating bullets, but the man couldn't care less if Waylon had lied to him or not, just so long as Waylon loses his job and not him. He's the same as everyone else here, care for yourself and nobody else unless your paycheck persuades you to schmooze with someone. The man scoot forward his seat forward and began typing on his computer. A buzz and a clicking noise came from one of the doors. Waylon glanced at it. 

"I'll let them know your coming."

Waylon nodded and stepped up to the metal double doors. He grasped the cold handle and almost couldn't open it due to the sweat in his palms. Walking through, he noticed a few more scientists ahead of him. Nose to the floor, Waylon began walking, painfully aware of his walking speed. Nothing felt right, walking too slow felt too leisurely and casual, but walking slightly faster felt suspicious. As he rounded the corner past the scientists, he heard them talking about their respective girlfriends and family. A stabbing sensation hit him in the heart when he remembered his own family. He shook their faces out of his head. He needs to stay focused. Another guard stood by the doors at the end of the hall. He scolded Waylon for being late before allowing him to walk past Hell's gates. 

A field of busy scientists, guards and only God knows who else, crowded the room. Chatter filled Waylon's ears, and he felt like he could hear every pen click, every syllable leaving each persons lip, every toe tap and keyboard click. Waylon couldn't see a single face that he had fond memories of, because there isn't one in the asylum. Everyone here is the same, greedy and morally horrible people. He hated these people, but he hated this room more. He drew in a deep and shaky breath. His eyes honed in on a desk with an open seat. He knew it was for him. He approached it, all the while dodging glances from judgmental eyes. He stopped a few feet away from the desk, already feeling drained. The glass wall in front of the desk held in so much pain. He spotted a familiar figure at the end of the room and felt like he was just kicked in the stomach. He sat down and reached for the keyboard. He slouched over the desk, tying to seem as unnoticeable as possible. _'Don't see me please'_ , he thought _'please God don't see me'_.

"Mr. Park"

Waylon practically flinched at the sound of his own name. He tore his eyes from the desk to look up at the scientist. 

"Hi Andrew," he mumbled. 

"So you finally decided to show up," Andrew mocked in a false friendly tone. He stood next to Waylon, but to Waylon it felt like he was looming over him, cornering him. Andrew placed his hand on the desk, a few inches from one of Waylon's, causing him to withdraw his hands into his lap. His curly brown hair hid his eyes from the older man. 

"What took you so long?"

"I didn't hear it... the page," Waylon practically whispered, heart beating hard in his chest. He did his best to ignore the eyes prying into him. "I need to work on the engine?"

"Yes," Andrew confirmed as he placed this other hand on the middle of Waylon's back. Waylon internally cringed and had to fight back the reflex to arch away from him. Andrew removed his gaze from him and looked at the monitor screen. As if to try and seem comforting, he rubbed his thumb on Waylon's back, back and forth. Waylon again had to bite back the urge to move away from him. 

"They've got Gluskin out of his cell. We're blind in his head, think you can make it work for me?"

"Yeah," Waylon absentmindedly said. 

“Good, that’s what I like to hear.” 

Waylon pulled the keyboard close to himself, acutely aware of Andrew still looming over him with his hand still on his back. He began to type, trying to find the problem so he can hurry up and fix it so he can get out of this room, especially to get away from Andrew. All he really has to do is input a few codes, recover some jack-asses password and typical stuff like that. It’s really not hard once you get familiar with computers. Waylon couldn’t help the wave of relief he felt when Andrew finally moved his hand off him. It took a great amount of effort for Waylon not to let out an eased sigh. Andrew didn’t leave Waylon's side, that he expected. In his typical manor, he stayed, watching him work and hovering over, practically breathing down his neck. Waylon was sort of used to this, not in the sense that he’s okay with it, but more rather he expects it and will deal with it. Much like Andrew as a person, Waylon doesn’t like him, doesn’t enjoy his company, but will keep his mouth shut and deal with whatever Andrew throws at him. 

Waylon never liked Andrew. The day he met the man he felt like there was something off about him. Waylon was naturally suspicious of people, ever since he was a boy, but he never wanted to be alone with this man in particular. He was much older than Waylon, probably around his late 50’s, maybe early 60’s. The deep wrinkles that carved into his face suggested the latter, and the insignificant laugh lines on his face suggests that in his youth he didn’t have much of a sense of humor. Though Andrew occasionally laughs and smiles now, Waylon assumed Andrew must’ve lived the majority of his life with a scowl on his face. He always had a hunch that Andrew hid a dark secret. Something he didn’t want most to know, although, everyone at Murkoff could fit that hunch. 

Waylon typed on the keyboard, eyes scanning over the monitor, he was still panicked and frazzled, but he was slowly calming down. Andrew was behaving as normal, and as much as Waylon hates it, he was thankful for that. Andrew spoke casually with a few other scientists, though his gaze never left Waylon and the screen. Waylon knew this because he could see Andrews reflection through the monitor, and just the mans gaze alone made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. A man working nearly across the room had shouted something to Andrew, something about the FMRI still being dark, and Andrew had a simple response, “you’re doubting our friend Mr. Waylon Park”?

“I consider that most unkind to his programming skill and _considerable_ dedication to the Murkoff corporation.”

Waylon’s heart skipped a beat. Why did Andrew say it like that. _‘Considerable’_ , why so much emphasis? Why enunciate it in such a way? Why draw the word out, making it more important? Did Andrew know? _‘No’_ , Waylon thought. _‘There’s no way he could know, he’s smart but not that smart. He couldn’t find out that fast… right?’_ He tried to keep his breathing steady but the familiar rise of anxiety was slowly filling him, rising like a glass of tap water. He wanted to disappear, to run away and never look back. Before he could fantasize about fleeing, the sound of a man shouting snapped him out of his head. Waylon looked up and towards the glass, he could see the next room behind it, but not enough to see what was going on. He looked back to Andrew, being that he is the one to normally know what’s going on. Andrew glared through the glass, lips in a small frown. He shook his head and muttered under his breath. 

“Fuck me they’re bringing him in.”

Waylon eyed the monitor and discovered he was nearly finished re-calibrating the engine. A blue bar was on the screen, the title above it read ‘Compiling Morphogenic Engine Software’, a good sign. It was about a sixth loaded and Waylon nearly sighed again. He’s almost done. He glanced back to the glass, trying to see what’s going on, but he already knew. A patient is going to get abused again. He sat up slightly, seeing the all too familiar machine, sitting there. It was akin to a giant, sci-fi looking orb. There were two smaller orbs, one on either side of it, all of it being part of something more sinister. There typically was a patient in the left hand orb, but he wasn’t there today. Maybe the scientists took him out, or maybe he died. The second seemed more likely to Waylon. 

Scientists came out from a side room, pulling a large, nearly naked man with them. The man screamed and fought them, but his struggles seemed to be useless. Waylon instinctively flinched as he watched. He watched as the man cried out for help, sounding as if he’s ripped his vocal cords due to the sheer volume of his voice. A stabbing sensation hit him right in the heart and he turned his face away. The patient was nearly out of his sight anyways, and there’s nothing he can do. _‘Just finish your work and get the hell out of here’_ , he told himself. The bar was about halfway full and he internally cursed. Why’d it have to take so long? His stomach twisted and turned at the sounds of the mans frantic pleas, but the word ‘rape’ that left the patients lips made him nearly vomit right on the desk. The guilt inside him bubbled and boiled like hot tar. 

He was trembling again. Actually, it was closer to shaking. The air in his lungs were gone, his vision was going blurry and he couldn’t have a single coherent thought other than abstract emotion.The commotion was growing louder and louder, the patient growing more panicked. The look of alarm on a guards face caught Waylon’s attention. He leaned to the left, trying to catch a glimpse of what’s going on. Unbeknownst to Waylon, the patient slammed his body into one of the scientists, causing him to topple over, then punched the other one to the ground. As Waylon leaned further over, he didn’t expect a body to slam in front of him. 

Waylon skyrocketed out from his seat, knocking the chair down to the floor as he stumbled back with wide eyes. Waylon’s mouth hung open in shock as the patient bashed his fists against the glass. Everyone in the room sturred and fumbled around in confusion and panic. His heart thundered against his chest as the patient screamed. He patient was physically large, abs clearly apparent on his highly muscular body. The scientists must have injected the man with some sort of steroid or maybe something else, but one thing was for certain, this man was huge. His jet black undercut was messy and tangled. Abruptly the patient seemed to notice Waylon, as if he didn’t even see him when he ran into the window. The patients eyes locked with Waylon's, as he began to shout at him. 

“You!” He yelled. “I know you can stop this.”

Those words ripped Waylon's soul out and smashed his heart to pieces. He wants to stop it, he wants to end it all so bad. He sent the email, so the pain should stop for everyone here. At least for all the patients. Waylon was frozen with guilt and fear, and even as the man was pulled away by multiple guards and scientists, he continued to beg Waylon for help. 

“You _have_ to help me, you _have_ to!”

Soon the man was dragged back, and was eventually out of Waylon's sight. Waylon stayed still, lost in his own mind until he was snapped back into reality when a guard grabbed him. The fist bawled up into the collar of his button up shirt that was slightly exposed from underneath his green sweater. The hostile look in the guards eyes was more then enough to know Waylon was in danger. He raised his hands in the air, surrendering at the shouting guard. Just after the guard told Waylon to calm down, a hand settled on his wrist. 

“It’s alright agent,” Andrew told the man. “Waylon Park was just surprised. I’m sure he’s now calm and eager to finish his work.”

His tone was calm, yet authoritative, but most of all dismissive, but it worked. His words seemed to be enough for the guard, because he released Waylon and proceeded to go about his business elsewhere. Only then Waylon lowered his arms, breaking the physical contact between him and Andrew, but it didn’t last long before Andrew gripped the junction between his neck and shoulder with a tight hand. Waylon looked at Andrew as he felt his hand give a slow squeeze. He gave him a small smile, but it was so clearly fake even Waylon knew how pathetic he must’ve looked. Andrew gently shook Waylon by the shoulder, making him sway slightly. 

“Are you alright Mr. Park?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Andrew said as his hand fell down to the small of Waylon's back. That familiar feeling of running away hit Waylon, but just like before, he held it back. Andrew pushed Waylon forward, hand lingering longer than necessary, only leaving once he had Waylon by the desk again. Waylon set the chair back up and sat down immediately. Andrew did get one thing correct. Waylon was very eager to finish his work so he could leave. He looked by his feet and took in a breath to ease his aching heart. Then, just as he was told, he resumed his work. The bar on the monitor screen was already gone, and with a few more clicks the screen flashed with color, revealing the patient who had called for help. The camera was working. 

Two thick green tubes were shoved down the patients throat, parting his chapped lips and forcing his mouth open wide. A third green tube was shoved up inside one of his nostrils and his eyes occasionally rolled back, most likely in nausea and pain. Again, the need to puke rose up in his throat, but he swallowed the need down. Waylon couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen. The man softly shook his head, obviously terrified and body spasming. Wires strapped him down and some were clipped into his flesh. His eyes haunted Waylon. Grey blue, and despite Waylon’s eyes being green, when he looked into the other mans eyes, he felt like it as a reflection. Dread, fear, confusion, pain and regret. Waylon empathized with him too much. The patients skin began to redden, and soon his skin began bubbling up with sores and blisters, some of which starting to bleed. He watched in horror when suddenly Andrew gripped his shoulder and pushed him to were he’d be looking at him and not the screen. 

“You’re finished Mr. Park,” he flatly said. 

Waylon rose to his feet, taking those words as a blessing. He nodded, trying not to seem to eager and began walking back to the doors he came through. He didn’t look back as he passed through the hall. _‘Don’t run Waylon, damn it don’t run’._ He had to remind himself of that. _Don’t run._ He avoided eye contact with everyone he passed, ghosted through the halls and rooms until he made it back to the server room door. He had to retrieve the laptop. As he reached forward to grab the handle, he stopped. The door was ajar. Wasn’t it left open? When he left it was certainly open, and if the guard were to close the door, he wouldn’t have left it barely open. Why would it be cracked like this? _‘It’s fine, you’re fine,’_ Waylon tried to ease himself. _‘Stop being paranoid’_. Even though that’s what he told himself, it didn’t change a thing. He silently opened the door and stepped inside. He shut the door behind him. He took in a slow, deep breath as he closed his eyes. It’s like he’s been having one massive panic attack since he first opened that laptop. Then again, it wouldn't be surprising considering himself. Waylon walked forward and turned the corner to face the desk, and felt the weight of the world crash on top him. 

“Someones been telling stories outside of class,” Blaire mocked, legs kicked up on the desk with the open laptop resting in his lap. Waylon turned around, ready to sprint out of there, but the door was kicked open and three security guards charged in. The leader of the three grabbed Waylon and shoved him to his hands and knees, and before Waylon could get back up, his long curly hair was yanked as he was pulled back onto his feet. He couldn’t help the yelp that left his lips. The guard slammed him chest first into the wall, head crashing against it. Waylon collapsed onto the floor, back against the wall. 

"On the ground! Hands where I can see them.”

He raised his hands, resting his knuckles against the wall. The three guards blocked Waylon’s escape. He shot a fearful look at his boss, Jeremy Blaire. Jeremy sat, confidently smiling down at Waylon. He flashed him his pearly white teeth before rising to his feet, laptop held firmly in his hands. Waylon failed. He’s more than screwed. He’s dead. 

“Mr. Waylon Park,” Blaire started, grinning down at Waylon. He loved the look of fear in his sea green eyes. “Consulting contract 8208, software engineer with a level three security clearance. Graduated cum laude from Burkley but somehow, not smart enough to know that the last thing a fly ought to do in a spider’s web… is wiggle.”

He dropped the laptop onto Waylon’s foot, breaking the technology upon impact. He withdrew his foot a few inches, hearing the glass fall to the floor. He didn’t think it was possible, but his heart sunk even more. He looked back up to his boss, who leaned forward. Jeremy rested his hands on his knees as he bent over, akin to a father scolding a child. He was still smiling, but behind his ice cold blue eyes, there was hot fury burning behind them. Waylon slowly started hyperventilating, which practically invited Jeremy to lean in a little bit closer to him. He dropped his fake smile and continued their little ‘chat’. 

“Somehow dumb enough to think that a borrowed laptop, onion router and fire wall patch would fool the worlds leading supplier of biometric security.” By the end of the sentence, he was grinning again. He brought his finger to his temple and tapped it a few times as he added, “stupid Mr. Park.”

“More than stupid actually, in fact that was _crazy_. I’m afraid we’re gonna have to have you committed,” he stood up straight. Waylon’s eyes widened further and his brows knotted together. He silently mouthed the words _'please no'_ as he shook his head, he meant for his voice to come out, but it was gone. Not that it mattered. He could scream and cry and beg for his life but nothing would change. The email was suicide. Might as well try and take it with a small bit of remaining pride. All he could think was _'I'm so sorry Lisa'_. He didn’t want to die, but dying without seeing his wife and kids ever again was much worse. 

"Mr. Park, will you willingly submit to forced confinement?" Jeremy rhetorically asked. Waylon’s only answer was a heavy breath as he let his head rest against the wall in defeat. 

"Did you hear that agent?"

The guard who attacked Waylon snickered and said simply, "he said yes Mr. Blaire."

"Great! Oh! And did I hear Mr. Waylon Park volunteer for the _morphogenic_ engine program?"

“No,” Waylon whimpered out, but it went completely ignored. 

"That's what I heard Mr. Blaire.”

"That was brave indeed Waylon," Jeremy taunted. Blaire then returned his voice to a formal business mans. "The Murkoff corporation and the onward march of science both appreciate your bravery and sacrifice." 

He smiled down at Waylon one last time before turning to the guard and finishing his thought. 

"Maybe you could administer Mr. Park here a light anesthetic".

"Gladly," the guard laughed before charging forward to Waylon. Waylon flinched with his arms flinging up to hide his face, but that didn't stop the guard from slamming his fist into Waylon's head, making him fall lower onto the ground. Waylon cried out in pain when the body of a rifle slammed against his ribs. Pain infected his body as his vision grew blurry from the punch to the head. His vision went dark before brightening up again for a moment, reviling a boot flying to Waylon's face. Then there was nothing.

Nothing but darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you liked it. I want to continue this story, but I tend to procrastinate. Please leave comments because they make my day and really motivate me, and if there is something you'd like me to know or maybe add in a later chapter, go ahead and comment, I'd love to hear it!


End file.
